Fiona Mackintosh
May 19, 2012
Band of Brothers
Besides his band of brothers,
who could penetrate his solitary shroud of sadness?
It breathes with him, a palpable, living thing,
with each inhale and exhale of his breath.
​
Who will sit with him as he struggles
to be present, in this moment?
In this place?
​
A friend's hand reaches out, fleeting, grounding, private.
​I am here. I am with you. You will not be left behind.
But still the shroud thickens and fills the room
a welling grief, thick like August air.
We breathe him in.
His father's shoulders shudder, generations of unspoken grief.​
And, as David stands, carrying the weight of wounds I cannot see,
I am reminded of the poet who said:
"In the night garden light is a swallowed cry."
​
Fiona Mackintosh (© May 19, 2012)